Sandra Brown - Ricochet

DeeDee was as bouncy as one of those fuzzy orange dogs that look like manic powder puffs. An ex-girlfriend had owned one. The damn thing had barked nonstop. Most hyper animal Duncan had ever been around. Until today. DeeDee was practically jumping out of her skin.

“She’s hiding something, Duncan. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

DeeDee’s “bones” were rarely wrong. In this particular case, he hoped they were. He wanted to close this case with dispatch and remain in the judge’s good graces. He’d never been a big fan of Judge Cato Laird, believing that often he talked out both sides of his mouth. Tough on crime and criminals one day, favoring the protection of their civil rights the next. His opinions seemed to drift along with the ebb and flow of public opinion, adhering only to the majority rule of the moment.

Duncan couldn’t admire a man to whom popularity was more important than conviction, but he supposed in order to win elections, the judge had to practice politics. And he certainly didn’t want a superior court judge as an enemy. That’s what he was likely to become if he continued hassling the judge’s wife because of what his partner felt in her bones.

Unfortunately, his bones were feeling the same thing. Especially after that last interview.

He jerked the steering wheel to the right and crossed two lanes of traffic to the accompaniment of blaring horns and shouted invectives. DeeDee gripped the armrest of the passenger door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thirsty.” The car jounced over the curb as he came close to missing the entrance to a McDonald’s.

“You had sweetened iced tea. ‘Mrs. Berry thinks that’s the only way to make it,’ ” she said, batting her eyelashes and mocking Elise Laird’s drawl.

“I was served iced tea. I didn’t drink it. Besides, aren’t you overdue a shot of caffeine? Not that you need it,” he added under his breath as he leaned toward the speaker to place their order.

“Should we go back and talk to some of the neighbors?” DeeDee asked.

“What good would that do? They were canvassed last night. None reported a recent burglary or break-in. No one saw Gary Ray Trotter lurking around the neighborhood. Nobody heard anything out of the ordinary last night.”

“Maybe Mrs. Laird opened the door and invited him in.”

“That’s a real stretch, DeeDee.”

After picking up their drinks at the window, he got back onto the street and rapidly closed in on the bumper of a soccer mom’s van. “What is with everybody today?” he said as he went around the van. “People are driving like there’s ice on the road.”

“What’s your hurry?” DeeDee asked.

He whipped into another lane in order to go around a slow-moving parochial school bus. “No hurry. I just hate this damn traffic.”

Heedless of his complaining, DeeDee said, “Okay, so maybe she didn’t welcome Trotter like a guest; there’s still something wrong with that picture.”

“I’ll bite. What makes you think so?”

“Generally-”

“Don’t be general. Be specific.”

“Okay. Specifically, her reaction when you raised the question of her firing her pistol ahead of Trotter. She went whey-faced.”

He supposed that “whey-faced” was one way to accurately describe Elise’s expression. “I pushed pretty hard. She stuck to her story.”

“Most good liars do.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“Maybe not lying,” DeeDee said. “Just not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“You’re getting general again. Give me an example.”

“I don’t know. I can’t be specific,” she said, matching his irritability. “She just doesn’t act like a woman who killed a hapless burglar last night.”

“She didn’t know he was hapless. Gary Ray Trotter didn’t look like a screwup when he was standing in her house, in the dark, firing a weapon at her. Do you think she should have waited to shoot him until after she’d seen his résumé?”

His sarcasm earned him a glare.

“And she was concerned enough to ask if Trotter had a family,” he pointed out. “It bothered her to think she might have orphaned some kids.”

“I’ll admit that was a nice touch.”

“Why do you think it was a ‘touch’?”

“Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not.”

“Sure sounds like it to me.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you’re doing just the opposite. You think everything she says and does is disingenuous.”

“Not everything. For instance, I believe that she was barefoot.”

This time, she was on the receiving end of a baleful look.

“All I’m saying,” she continued, “is that I believe the sweet remark about Trotter’s family was made for your benefit.”

“My benefit?”

“Oh, please, Duncan. Wake up. She answers my questions, but whenever she wants to stress a point, such as her truthfulness, she looks at you.”

“You’re imagining that.”

“Like hell, I am. The lady knows on which side to butter her bread.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re a man.”

“Which, in the context of this discussion, is beside the point.”

“Right.” She used the tone she did whenever he denied knowing how to play the piano. For the next several moments, she was deep in thought, poking at the ice cubes in her drink with her straw. “You know what else? I think suspicion has reared its ugly head to the judge.”

“Now I know you’re seeing things that aren’t there,” he said. “He’s never more than half a foot away from her, treats her like she’s made of porcelain.”

“True. He’s very protective. Almost as though he’s afraid she might need his protection.”

“He’s her husband.”

“He’s also a judge who’s listened to hours of sworn testimony in his courtroom, as he reminded us today. He commended her comprehensive recall. But you can bet he also knows a lie when he hears one. And he got awfully defensive when we advanced Dothan’s theory about Trotter having been shot and reflexively pulling the trigger on his way down. Judge Laird pooh-poohed it without further explanation or discussion. His wife didn’t fire first. Period. The end.” She paused for breath. “Which leads me to believe that His Honor may be questioning his wife’s story.”

They arrived at the Barracks. Duncan pulled his car into a slot in the parking lot, but neither of them made a move to get out. He leaned forward, crossed his arms over the steering wheel, and stared through the windshield at the civilians and police personnel going in and out of the Habersham Street entrance.

He felt DeeDee’s eyes on him, but he let her be the first to break the weighty silence. “Look, Duncan, I know it’s hard to get past that face. That body. Although I know there’s been speculation about my sexual orientation from yahoos like Worley, I’m straight. But being straight doesn’t make me blind to Elise Laird’s appeal. I can appreciate-okay, appreciate and envy-the way she looks and the effect she has on the opposite sex. There, I’ve been honest. Now you, in turn, must be honest with me.”

She paused, but when he said nothing, she continued. “Can you honestly, cross-your-heart-and-

hope-to-die honestly, be objective when you look at her?”

“I’m a cop.”

“With a penis. And that particular organ is notorious for having lapses in judgment.”

He turned and looked at her then. “Have you ever, ever known me to compromise an investigation?”

“No. With you it’s either wrong or right, black or white, no gray areas. That’s why as soon as I made detective I petitioned hard to become your partner.”

“So where’s this coming from?”